


Steve from Brooklyn, You're On The Air

by Happenpants



Category: Captain America (Movies), Jessica Jones (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Badass Trish Walker, F/M, Injured Steve, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Radio, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, post-age of ultron, pre-Jessica Jones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-05 05:46:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5363621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Happenpants/pseuds/Happenpants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When soulmarks appeared after the Convergence, the whole world had a lot of things to figure out. For Steve Rogers, at least, the number one thing was this -- why the hell was the handwriting on his arm not Bucky's, and what was he going to do about it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steve from Brooklyn, You're On The Air

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a number of wonderful soulmark fics, including amusewithaview's [write love on my skin](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1835587) and Ozhawk's [Crackship Armada](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2658407). I got bit by the Trish bug and I have no regrets.

Every time he thought he’d caught up to the world, it flipped itself over and made him start from scratch.

After the serum — and after Bucky’d been captured by Zola — he’d made himself into the soldier that helped bring down Hydra. After the ice, he’d started to figure out what sort of man he was in the twenty-first century. After Bucky on the bridge —

All right, he was still figuring that one out. 

But after the Convergence ended and nearly the whole world woke up with strange writing on their arms, words and phrases marking them as the half of someone else’s soul…

“You know, you could give a guy a break,” Steve said to the ceiling of his apartment, then edged his cast-bound leg over the side of his bed to grab his cane and limp into the kitchen. Shattered in four places, even with the serum it was going to take a week or two for the leg to heal. And that meant he was laid up while the rest of the team got to work, doing the leg work on a pair of gifted terrorists doing their damnedest to set off volcanoes in the South Pacific unless their ransom demands were met.

“I’m sorry, Captain Rogers, did you need something?” Friday’s voice — and damn if it didn’t sound a little bit like his Ma — answered his divinely rhetorical question.

“Never mind, Friday. Any luck on the search today?” He preferred to look for Bucky in person, chasing leads, pounding the pavement. He might not be as good with intel as Natasha was, but nobody out stubborned him. With him out of action, though, he was relying on the AI to keep her ear to the wire in case something popped up relating to his friend.

His friend whose handwriting was not the loopy, feminine scrawl on his forearm.

That one’d been a helluva shock. He’d loved Peggy, no doubt about that, but when he’d seen Bucky on the bridge his heart had about stopped.

For the first time since he’d woken up in Shield’s fake hospital, he’d had hope. A thread of connection to the life he’d thought long gone.

His best friend.

His Bucky.

“I’m sorry, Captain Rogers. There are no new updates at this time.”

He stumped into the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee into the ‘World’s Best Team Dad’ mug that Tony’d gotten him for his birthday, looking across the island to the hi-fi in the living room. Despite the jokes about being a hipster — he’d looked that one up later — there was something reassuring about the cracks and pops of good old fashioned record.

But it wasn’t the turntable that drew his eye.

It was the radio, its silvery knob gleaming.

He glanced down at the loop of writing on his arm and pressed his lips together, holding the coffee carefully as he limped over to the hi-fi and flipped the switch to turn it on.

The words on his arm were slightly raised, and he rubbed a thumb against them from habit.

“…And I don’t care what that jerk before me said, we got problems of our own, and we don’t need no foreigners taking up good American jobs and homes when our veterans —“

 

* * *

 

“…Are on the streets.” 

Trish signaled to the control room to cut to the next caller, rubbing at the stabbing pain just above her temple. The piece on a newly settled refugee family from Sokovia, about to celebrate their first Christmas in New York, was supposed to have been a feel good holiday story about the power of hope to overcome despair.

And it was.

Until they’d started taking callers. Even her best screener couldn’t keep the tide of anti-immigrant loonies to a dull roar. 

Her console gave the next caller’s name, and she steadied the mic with a practiced hand, “Hi, Cathy from Long Island. You’re on live with Trish Talk.”

“Hi Trish, love the show. I just wanted to say that I can’t believe how unfeeling some of your callers have been. It’s Christmas, and this is New York City — almost everyone here came from somewhere else, and those kids deserve just as much of a chance as our parents and grandparents did.”

Finally, a voice of reason. Trish smiled, “Thanks for the call, Cathy.” At her producer’s hand gesture, she nimbly flipped a switch to start fading in her closing music, glad to go out on a more positive note, “That’s about all we have time for today here on Trish Talk. Join us tomorrow for a special piece on the needs of the veteran community as we profile some of the unique groups here in the city who are trying to help.”

“And we’re clear. Nice show, Trish.” 

She flashed a thumbs up to the production booth and slid her headphones off, tugging the clip from her hair to let the tension out. The action made the bruises on her shoulders and ribs ache like holy hell, which set off a tug of pride in her. “Did you get ahold of the rep from Soldier’s Heart?” Shrugging into her jacket, she pushed open the studio door and headed toward her office.

Her production assistant Dean was waiting with a clipboard in hand. “Yes, and Homes for Heroes, and Living Clear. Are you sure you want to put Soldier’s Heart on the show, though? I mean…” He bit his lip. “This whole soulmate thing, nobody’s sure what to make of it. It’s going to pull attention away from the charities working to get veterans into homes and jobs.”

Trish flipped through the notes on the clipboard and initialed her approval, “Tell me this, Dean. You come home from a war, sometimes hurt, sometimes shook all to hell and back. What do you think you need more — four walls and a cubicle, or someone who’ll love you, bruises and all?”

She was proud of the way she kept her voice steady.

In fact, she was seriously considering ‘Faking It: The Trish Walker Story’ as the title for her eventual ridiculous biography.

He rubbed the back of his neck and looked down, “It’s a point, but nobody’s even sure if these things are /real/ or not…” Dean kept the sleeve of his right arm rolled down at all times. In the summer, he’d worn a wide leather bracelet over his wrist. 

Some people had no problem showing off their marks. Trish was lucky; hers was along the small of her back, bold, upright strokes that were surprisingly easy to read. Whoever her soulmate was, he or she had fantastic penmanship.

“Well, real or not, they’re a guaranteed ratings win.” When the marks had shown up nearly a year before, they’d been all anyone had talked about for months. It’d been a relief to stop finally showcasing them so much; this show would be the first time she’d violated her ‘no soul mark shows’ in ages.

But when she’d seen the story in the Times about the all-volunteer effort to match returning veterans with their soulmates via handwriting analysis, she’d damn near dropped her latte all over her desk at the organization’s name.

It was stamped onto her skin, after all.

“Whatever you say, boss.” Dean gave a loose salute and sped off with the clipboard to finish the show notes, leaving Trish alone to stare out her window at the city below.

 

* * *

 

He hadn’t meant to start listening to her show.

Most of the world seemed to spend half their lives glued to screens, watching television, staring at their phones. He didn’t mind the technology, but the habit to always be looking at the things just wasn’t something he’d built up. He liked going to the movies, sitting in the dark with other people to catch a show; he liked outdoor tables at a coffee shop, watching the people go by.

And he liked the radio. The old serials, now, nobody did much of those anymore, though one of the assistants at the base kept trying to get him to listen to something called a podcast. But putting on the radio while he drew or worked on files — that was familiar, friendly. Kept the place from seeming too empty.

He’d been twisting the dial, looking for a baseball game to listen to, when he’d caught her voice. Not just how pretty it was — though it sure was that — but how kind she sounded as she talked to a woman who sounded on the edge of tears, explaining how she’d lost her husband to a rare form of cancer.

So he’d left the radio on her station and picked up his pencil to sketch, listening with half an ear. 

The next day, he’d turned it on again around the same time without much thinking about it, reading reports while she coaxed a shy young kid into telling her about the program he’d built from nothing to give kids in Africa books and computers that worked on solar power.

She was sharp, too. Didn’t take any guff from people who had their heads up their asses, though she didn’t much lose her cool when they went off on her. More than once he found himself grinning as she hung a jerk with his very own words.

He had a stack of paper files on the coffee table in his living room, dug up from some archive from the 60s that had information about the Soviets’ version of the Red Room. Natasha had brought it by late last night, dropping it off with a bag of Chinese food and a suggestion he take up knitting during his convalescence.

Like he didn’t already know how to darn his own socks.

He’d just finished working his way through a collection of training photographs when the radio caught his ear.

“Today on Trish Talk, we’d like to extend a special invitation to our listeners who’ve served in the armed forces. I’d love to hear what you have to say about our guests today. First off, let me introduce Deborah Carr of Soldier’s Heart, a nonprofit that’s recently been founded to help returning soldiers find the match to their soul mark through a combination of data and handwriting analysis. Deborah, welcome. Tell us a bit about your organization.”

“Thanks, Trish — first, let me say I’m a huge fan of the show. I have to admit that this is a very personal subject for me, because when my soul mark appeared I was married to a man who wasn’t very kind to me. My words — well, I don’t want to go into details — but let’s just say they didn’t match my first husband’s, and they were of a decidedly military nature. When I met Wendy —“

“First Lieutenant Wendy Miller,” another woman’s voice said, fondly, and as if recorded elsewhere.

“— Well, I knew. We were soulmates. We’ve been together ever since. Wendy was a helicopter pilot, flying evac runs out of the mountains. She came under heavy fire and was shot down during her final tour. I’m sure I don’t need to explain what that sort of trauma can do to a person.”

The recorded woman’s voice began, hesitantly, “I didn’t have much luck with therapy at first, but I kept at it. Meeting Deb, though. That’s what saved my life. I know — they tell you, and it’s true — that love alone can’t heal all wounds. But I’ll tell you, it gives you a damn good reason to get out of bed. Maybe it’s not romantic love. Maybe it’s just knowing that you’re needed, by your kid, by a dog, by whoever. But it matters. It gave me, at least, a reason to fight.”

Trish’s voice, gentle, kind. “And that’s why you started Soldier’s Heart.”

“That’s right. I know some people think you should just be patient, wait until you find your soulmate organically. But some of these men and women, the ones who are fighting the darkest battles inside — they don’t always have that kind of time.”

Steve’s pencil snapped, and he looked down at it, surprised that he was still holding it. God only knew how long he’d been staring at nothing, listening to the radio.

When he found himself holding his phone, typing in the numbers the radio show broadcast regularly, though, he wondered:

Why now?

 

* * *

 

They went to commercial and came back to callers, Deborah seated opposite her with a glass of water. Predictably, the board had lit up like Mardi Gras when they’d thrown the line open.

Everyone had an opinion about soul marks.

Trish, though, was watching the caller list, trying hard not to look as though she was staring. First name, where they were calling from, notes from the producer doing the screening. The first caller was local, a man, and she flipped the switch to put him on the air.

“Hi, Steve from Brooklyn. You’re on the air.”

 

* * *

 

The marks on his arm burned, and he swallowed once, heart in his throat.

 

“Hi, Trish. I wanted to thank you for bringing Soldier’s Heart on your show — I might have my doubts about soul marks, but as a vet, I know for certain that having someone to fight for makes all the difference in the world.” Keeping his voice steady was hard as hell, but he did his best to fake composure. “I’ve got a good friend out there right now who’s fighting that war. I just hope that he’s lucky enough to get the help he needs to remember that.”

The odds that Bucky was listening were impossibly small…

But maybe. Hopefully. 

And who knew, maybe someone else who needed it would hear the message, too, and maybe it’d do someone some good.

 

* * *

 

The pause after Steve from Brooklyn stopped speaking went on awkwardly long, so long that Deborah and her producer Tina both looked at her with concern and worry. The mark at the small of Trish’s back burned, and she pressed her hands flat on the console in front of her to keep her composure, before signaling Tina to keep the last caller on the line. “Thanks, Steve, I’m glad — and thank you for those thoughtful words. Next we have Georgia, calling us from Montauk.”

“Hi, Trish! I’m a huge fan. Listen, I just wanted to ask — how do you know when your mark is for real, because, like, mine is super common and I just want to make sure it’s right…”

 

The next thirty minutes passed in a blur. She must’ve made it sound normal, somehow, but she had zero memory of what she’d said to finish out the interview. As soon as the On Air sign went dark, she hopped from her chair, thanked Deborah, and burst into the production booth. “Did you get his number?”

“Who?”

“Steve from Brooklyn.” Throttling Tina was not an option. She breathed out through her nose. Calm. Collected.

She’d won three Daytime Emmys, for pete’s sake.

“Oh, no, he hung up pretty quickly. Wanted me to thank you again for the show, though.” Tina leaned back and added, a glint in her eyes, “He sounded cute. Said that he hoped he’d get to meet you someday, maybe get an autograph.”

Was that gargling sound coming from her? Trish took a breath. “Right. Okay. Thanks, Tina.”

Maybe she was wrong. Maybe —

No. Life was too short to live on maybes. She was Trish Walker, and she had a life she’d worked damn hard for.

If Steve from Brooklyn ever got his head out of his ass, he knew where to find her.

 

* * *

 

Steve looked down at the phone in his hand. Stark made good gadgets; it was sturdy, and no matter how hard he’d clenched his hand when she’d spoken to him, the handset had only creaked, not actively cracked.

When the producer had asked for his information for a follow-up, he’d hesitated. There was always trouble on the horizon for him these days, true, but with Bucky still missing and the growing tension between the Avengers and the rest of the world after Sokovia…

Timing mattered.

He glanced at the radio and took a breath. He couldn’t even walk without a cane right now. 

But she was out there, kind voice, sharp wit. He’d seen her photo on busses and ad boards around town, knew she was pretty as a picture to boot.

Once he got things sorted out, he’d call her up. See if she wanted to catch a movie, maybe go out to Coney Island.

See if a woman like that had time for a boy from Brooklyn.

But knowing she was there, on the other end of the radio.

Steve felt his cheeks ache and realized he’d been smiling like a damn fool for at least the last ten minutes. “Friday, can you make sure to record Trish Talk for me? And don’t tell Stark.”

“Would you like me to record it every day, Captain Rogers?”

“Please.”

“Of course.”

It was good to know there was someone out there.

It gave a guy a reason to fight.

 

 


End file.
